Friday, March 14, 2014

I, thee crazy, love you

So, I read a article tonight - (Drake, it said 20,000 alright- not enough)> I try to appease my Goth Body, sometime I feel it not enough. Read endless essays -my family at night I'm thinking of - how is our Gothic disposition supposed to compete with 2000 years of endless tragedy? I have no answers or words.

Who am I to say what is Gothic or not, despite the stacks of books, endless essays, or...this very night, or which I debate about with my family over a 4.50 cent bottle of cheap whiskey, and the false-heart-felt are looking for an analysis on words for which they understand no more than the science of scientology.

A throwing into the never never into the winds of time. How would A Goth of me ever so confine, into endless hours I divine, empty across this table, not even this bottle of Absinthe makes the night able,...and still I dream. Thank you to the bottle from Paris from across the ocean stream, as I can not remember the last time I looked up the tower with beauty on my arms, no call for alarm, and yet the next morning stuffed into shipping box, how 12 hours of silence make you detox.

New York, I hate you. For all your dirty wrechedness, never to remember the hours of empty rooms, not 2 minutes of taxis from main and sixth, an entire $120 dollars for doubles, and singles seemed only to reflect upon my face. I saw the last neons, as I thought they were beautiful, but never profited from the entire cover they charged and lost due to taxes.

Oh, the night it ever wanes and waxes. Been to thirty-two different countries in the last 12 months, and still I am told that uniform location and discipline and honor makes the dread -as if the three monikered world makes me real or afraid any-more. It is not so much of a blessing at it is a chore. And, those how fought for Goth the entire world around were no more rememorable than the world 2 centuries before, and I feel all the better than those who remembered after-the-fact of all that have become before.

And I, still at my station, while those in fantasy of vacation still herald nothing I have done, typed, or said -it is still the motion. Perhaps it will be still 1000 years after I have died that means anything to those clinging to yonder verse of all that I have expressed, fuck you, although, I digress, wishing that it would have really been me.

And to you, yes, perhaps I am thee crazy, but, remember, I love you.

(Written: Drunk, Crazy, Alone, and in Paris from a networked computer re-routed through a home-bases proxy. God, I hate to be shipped back in tight-crates.)